


If You're Loved By Someone (You're Never Rejected)

by WednesdaysDaughter



Series: I And Love And You [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1574975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdaysDaughter/pseuds/WednesdaysDaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re fifteen when you realize why you stare at Bucky’s lips more than normal when he laughs and when he says your name. You lean into his shoulder when you walk next to him and when you’re sick you don’t fight off his soft hands. You tease him, he teases back and being around him is so easy you forget what it was like to live without him. You can’t remember life pre-Bucky and it scares you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There Was a Kid

**Author's Note:**

> I've come out of hiding all because of two super-soldiers and their stupid faces and ugh The Winter Soldier has ruined me for all things. I was really, really, nervous about stepping away from familiar fandoms, but this fic demanded it be written and who am I to ignore a fic? So, I hope you enjoy it - I hope it makes you feel things. Most importantly, I hope you know I am here for you and your post-TWS recovery.

You’re three years old when the fever hits and your mother cradles you in her arms, alone in a small apartment as you whimper and cry.

She sings under her breath and prays harder than she has in years and when the fever breaks the next day she nearly collapses to the ground in relief. Your eyes are wide and wet and so blue like the ocean that she vows then and there to take you to the beach when you are older. Your toothy smile makes her chest ache and when she sees the other children in the ward a week later – struggling to fight off the fever that nearly took you away– she’ll recall that smile and breathe a little easier.

Days turn to weeks and she thinks the worst is over, but as you slowly grow older she realizes with a stricken heart that your body longs for the cool Earth and so she continues to pray.

\- - - -

A couple days after your sixth birthday you have your first asthma attack and you think that you are dying.

Panicked, you clutch your throat and curl inward as your lungs battle behind your fragile ribcage. Your mother’s behind you in an instant, her hands soothing on your heaving back and she can feel your boney spine underneath her fingertips.

“Don’t fight it Steve, just relax,” she says and you cry.

Time passes by like molasses; it’s hard to tell how long you lay curled on the ground gasping for air. When your chest stops aching and you can taste the cool oxygen on your tongue you realize you can hear your mother whispering pleas to someone not there.

The relief is so overwhelming you pass out and wake up in bed long after the sun has gone down. You think it was a one-time thing – a fluke – and you decide to stay inside on windy days when the dust is whirled up. Weeks later when you have your second attack you consider asking for another set of lungs for Christmas.

\- - - - -

Twelve years old and you already know you’re not like the other kids.

Sometimes you can’t hear everything your mother says and it hurts to stand up straight. You can’t run as fast as the neighborhood boys and your mother says your heart beats to a different tune – something you figured out was bad when your last doctor’s visit ended in a tense silence when the stethoscope was removed from your chest.

You also know that kids are cruel and when Mickey Boyle plants a fist into your stomach and you fold neatly around it, you want to ask him what you did to deserve this. He shoves you down and your body nearly shatters against the cold dirt. Your left eye is swollen shut and blood coats your mouth from where your tongue and teeth met in a violent clash.

You know he’s about you kick you, so your hands wrap around your stomach and you wait for it – you always wait for it. The seconds pass and you cautiously open your right eye to a scene so unexpected you let out a gasp.

He’s bigger than you, but not by much and his hair is dark brown – almost black in the light. His fists are clenched and he spits his words at the bully’s feet.

“Hey beat it before I give you a beatin’ so fierce it makes you look like the mincemeat in the butcher's window.”

Mickey’s friends look at him for advice and when he flees so do they.

For a second you almost expect the other kid to kick you, but when he turns around to look at you that fear is gone quicker than it came.

“Jesus kid, didn’t your ma ever teach you not to go picking fights with guys twice your size?”

He reaches down and helps you up and you’re a little awestruck when you reply, “Yeah, but I didn’t think breathing was a reason to get beat up.”

The boy looks at him and then laughs and you feel like you’ve accomplished something amazing.

“I like you – and the people I like don’t get messed with so stick with me and they won’t bother you anymore.”

It feels like a bucket of ice and you scowl. You're not some pansy who needs others to do your fighting. You're strong, like the stories of your father that you coaxed out of your mother. You don't need protecting and this kid needs to know that now. You puff up your chest even though it hurts and look him square in the eye.

“I can take care of myself. I don’t need you to look after me.”

You try to put all the strength you have left into your words and he looks impressed.

“Ok tough guy. Maybe you don’t need me to look after you, but maybe I want to.”

You don’t know what to say to that and your anger vanishes as quickly as it came. No one besides your mother has ever wanted to take care of you so you eye the boy who just smirks and you nod your head because what else can you do?

You don’t say anything when he offers you a shoulder to lean on and you direct him to your home where you mother is most likely worrying herself sick: You were supposed to be home an hour ago.

“The name’s Bucky by the way. Seeing as how we’re friends now it’s only fair that we know what to call each other.”

You startle a little at the proclamation and try not to let hope bubble in your chest. You’ve never had a friend before and so you stammer out your name as he helps you up the steps.

“My name’s S-steve.”

Bucky grins and shakes your good hand when you stop in front of your door. You don’t have time to process the look of accomplishment on Bucky’s face before the door flies open and there’s your mother with her curly hair and faded blue dress.

“Hi there ma’am, my name’s Bucky and I just wanted to make sure my friend Steve got here safely: All kinds of ruffians out there during this time of day.”

You’re amazed at Bucky’s charm and when you see the way your mother’s eyes soften you know you’re not the only one.

“Thank you Bucky, that was very nice of you,” she replies and Bucky nods before handing you over to her steady hands.

“See ya later Steve!” he exclaims and races down the stairs and out of sight.

You stand in the doorway a little longer, hoping he’ll come back, but your mother ushers you inside to tend to your wounds. You hiss when she dabs your lip and wince when she checks for broken ribs. She sighs and you feel the rush of disappointment –if only you were like the other kids, maybe they wouldn’t beat you up so much – but she brushes your blonde hair out of your face and kisses your forehead before you head to bed.

When Bucky’s waiting for you at the bottom of your stairs the next morning you can’t contain your smile. His answering grin makes your aches and pains vanish before you’ve reached sidewalk.

\- - - - - -

You’re fifteen when you realize why you stare at Bucky’s lips more than normal when he laughs and when he says your name. You lean into his shoulder when you walk next to him and when you’re sick you don’t fight off his soft hands. You tease him, he teases back and being around him is so easy you forget what it was like to live without him. You can’t remember life pre-Bucky and it scares you.

You’re sixteen when you almost lean in and close the distance between your lips after a disastrous double-date. You kick at a pebble on the way home and get lost in your thoughts. He calls your name, but you keep walking and when he catches up, Bucky puts his arm around you, pulling you close. “Those dames don’t know what their missing Stevie. Who needs them?” You hide your smile as Bucky rattles on and when you look up your eyes meet, but you chicken out and try to hide how fast your heart is pounding.

You don’t forget the look in Bucky’s eyes that night.

You’re seventeen when you catch him staring at your bare back after a late night swim and you let him look longer than you probably should. Drops of water race down your pale skin and you shiver when a cool breeze rushes past. Bucky tosses you a shirt and tells you not to get pneumonia. You tell him to shut his trap and he laughs – loud and happily and it echoes in the darkness. You fall into bed that night remembering the way Bucky ran his fingers down your damp arm and you shiver for a whole other reason.

You fall asleep with his name on your lips and his face behind your eyelids.

You’re eighteen and you’re in love and when he looks at you, you think he is too. You think you can hear it in the way he says your name: Exasperated when you pick fights, worried when you’re sick in bed and desperately fond when you throw him an apple to munch on as you walk to school together. You think you can see it in the way Bucky hits the guys who corner you in an alley and in the way he looks at you when you insist on walking home even though it hurts to breathe. You think you can feel it when he puts ice on your swollen eye and when you’re so delirious with a fever you can’t tell up from down, you feel it in his lips that brush across your forehead before sleep claims you.

Decades later and you can still feel his lips on your sweaty brow.

You’re eighteen and you bury your mother. A couple days later, Bucky moves in and her ghost moves out, knowing that you were in good hands.

\- - - - - -

At twenty you read about the war and it feels like you’ve finally found your calling.

Bucky watches to wearily as you pace your apartment floor and talk about going overseas to help – to be a soldier. You don’t listen to his protests, “You’ll get yourself killed Stevie.”

“It’s not about that Buck, it’s about doing the right thing.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and stands, adjusting his jacket and when he reaches out to touch your shoulder, you shiver. He notices and tries to hide his smirk.

“Just don’t do anything stupid until I get back from the docks okay?”

You shove at him, but smile anyway because for years he’s been lifting you up when you were down.

“I’ll do my best,” you say, letting the sarcasm drip from your lips.

Bucky hesitates, but then reaches out and pulls you into his arms.

“I mean it Steve. Don’t go jumping into a war that might not even need us.”

You inhale and when he finally leaves you exhale. You want him to stay, but you need the money and you’re low on groceries.

Not even a year later and America is pulled violently into the war. You look over at Bucky whose fists are clenched and you know he’s thinking the same thing.

You are going to enlist.

\- - - - - -

Twenty-four with four F4’s under your belt and you’re crawling out of your skin.

Not for the first time in your life, and not for the last, you stare down at your hands in anger: You curse the body you’re in, until you remember how tenderly your mother touched you and how your heart would race when Bucky clapped your shoulder. It was not your body’s fault, how could you hate something that came from your mother; something that Bucky defended.

You think about Bucky and that day he told he was going to enlist – you remember how you had to go to bed early that night because you couldn’t face him. You needed a couple hours because Bucky’s acceptance came faster than your rejections and it hurt.

Of course they’d take Bucky. He was good at defending people; good in a fight especially when the little guy was you and your inability to keep your mouth shut.

Bucky gets his orders and you’re torn between congratulations and begging: Of course you’re happy for Bucky, but you don’t want him to leave. You can’t keep an eye on him while he’s over there. You can’t make sure he's eating properly or sleeping enough or staying out of trouble. All those years Bucky thought he was looking after you and it was really the other way around.

Twenty-four and you watch your best friend – the only person you have left – walk away, all kinds of handsome and brave in that uniform.

You want to be walking with him.

Minutes later and you’re on your way to the war: Taking a path different from Bucky’s, but part of you hopes you’ll find him over there.

You do, but it’s not the reunion you were hoping for.

\- - - - - -

You’re twenty-five and holding Bucky so tight he protests under his breath, but you ignore it.

Safe in your tent and far from the world you pull away and trace the lines on Bucky’s face that weren’t there before he left. He looks older and sadder, but he still looks like the jerk who has stuck by your side for thirteen years and it makes your eyes sting.

“Getting emotional on me Stevie?” Bucky teases, but you can see the relief in his eye so you don’t reply.

You stare at each other until he caves and it surprises you how much strength Bucky has left when he grips your jacket and pulls you in until you can taste the smoke on his lips. You breathe it in and nearly sob in desperation. Your hands come to cup his face and hold him there, but he’s not pulling away – he’s trying to get closer and your bodies meld together like they did those freezing winter nights curled together in bed for warmth.

Instead of cold, all you feel is fire and it races up your spine and into your lungs until you pull away to breathe. Bucky’s back on you before you can blink and you pour years of love into his mouth until he’s whimpering and when you pull him down onto your cot it’s like coming home from a long journey.

You’re twenty-five and you’ve never felt happier and when it all turns to ice so does your heart and not even S.H.I.E.L.D. can thaw it out.

Your throat is raw from yelling his name and the second he falls part of you wants to jump after him, but your hands are frozen to the rail and your feet can’t move. By the time you can you’re miles away and Bucky’s too gone to rescue. You want to burn everything to the ground – want every HYDRA operative in a line in front of their graves and it burns like whiskey in your soul when you enter your tent and recall the way he felt above you.

The next hours are a blur of fire and bruises and as Peggy chokes up while you’re somewhere over the Atlantic you regret being that hitch in her voice. You regret a lot of things as you guide the plane into the ocean, but you don’t regret those nights spent whispering to Bucky who slept a few feet away about growing up. You don’t regret picking fights and letting Bucky patch you up afterwards. You don’t regret pulling him behind a snow-covered tree and kissing the breath out of him before getting on that train.

You take a deep breath and feel the impact: Glass shattering and water rushing to greet you like an old friend.

Twenty-five years old and ready to die and you do not expect to wake up, but you dream and when you see his face it feels a little like Heaven and you are okay with this ending.


	2. A Head Full of Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your whole body protests as your lungs heave and attempt to break through your chest with your heart and it feels like an asthma attack. It feels like the ocean slamming into your body and you’re too shocked to do anything but say his name.
> 
> “Bucky?”
> 
> His mouth opens and his voice hits you like a bullet and his words make you bleed until you can’t think anymore.  
> “Who the hell is Bucky?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness the support and lovely comments on the first chapter give me life! I just adore y'all so much and so I had to finish the 2nd chapter today and get it up ASAP. As you can see, I decided to add another chapter and I'm going to start on it tonight and hopefully get it up by Thursday (Friday at the latest).

When you wake up seventy years later something inside you snaps and you nearly fall to your knees in the middle of Time Square. There are no word for how hard the shock hits you and how often it continues to do so.

One missed date and the end of a war and you’re still twenty-five. Seventy years gone and Bucky’s still dead – even more so than before and you punch and kick and sweat until you can breathe again. You blink and you can see his face, blink again and you can hear his laugh. You keep blinking until a movie’s playing behind your lids and your fists fly until the bag comes off its hook.

You’re ninety-two and the world is in danger and you suit up because it’s the right thing to do. You fight because it’s what he would want you to do.

You see a ghost in the face of Tony Stark and you wonder if he sees one in you. You’re cautious around Bruce and wary of Fury – Agent Coulson is strangely the only one to make you feel at ease. You’re tempted to ask whether or not any of the Howling Commandos got trading cards, but by the time you think about it, it’s too late and the body count has gone up.

“We are not soldiers” Tony spits and you understand that venom; that grief displayed so vibrantly on his face.

You think of Howard as Tony figures out Loki’s plan and you wonder if it was his parenting or his death that made his son so bitter – so ready and willing to wear a mask that made people dislike him on sight.

You’re not sure what to make of this team, but with aliens falling from the sky and civilians threatened, you’ll take this ragtag group over nothing. Bloodied and bruised you call out orders and it’s almost like Nazi Germany. It’s almost like the war when you see Stark fall from space and you think you’ve lost another one – not a soldier and not a good man, but rather both.

When Tony is startled back into life you smile in relief as he tries to defuse the tense situation and you think to yourself, “maybe he’s not that bad,” but you’ll never admit that out loud.

The aliens return to wherever they came from and you get on your bike and ride far away. You think about Fury letting you go, but you know it’s just an illusion. You’re a soldier and soldier’s fight so you know you’ll be back and maybe you’ll join S.H.I.E.L.D. but for now you just want to drive.

\- - - - - -

You’re ninety-five and you’ve adjusted well to the 21st century.

You work closely with Natasha and you’re close to being friends, but she’s on a different mission when you’re running one and it takes you back to the days when soldiers didn’t follow their CO’s and were killed.

You don’t trust Fury – you don’t really trust anyone who is willing to eye the human population through a scope with a finger that could slip “accidentally” and end a life before evil touched their soul. Some days it’s too much for you and you long for those cold nights in German forests and warm mornings in London bars. The only place close enough to the past is the Smithsonian and even then it’s not enough.

You’ve been to the exhibit so many times your lips form the words before the narrator can. A couple kids recognize you, but they never say anything and just nod as if they know you’re not Captain America at the moment. You don’t care much for the decorations: Your painted face staring into the distance, probably seeing anything but what your real eyes actually saw during the war.

Bucky’s display is like a cold hand tugging at your heart.

It mentions all the big details – where he was born and how you became friends at a young age. It doesn’t mention his caffeine dependence or his way with the dames. It doesn’t say anything about the way his body merged with the ground before he took a shot or the way it felt under your fingertips. The history books got it wrong: Scratched out the parts that mention the way you looked at each other when no one else was around. They turned you both into the poster boys of childhood friendship – forgetting about the love that saved your life when you were twelve and bleeding in the dirt.

Bucky’s display is an ache that will never fade, just like Peggy’s face flashing on a big screen is an ulcer in your gut that nothing can soothe.

Peggy, who remembers you some days, but more often than not thinks she is looking at a dead man rather than a friend who often comes to her for advice. It hurts you when she forgets, but you can’t stop visiting. Your best girl deserves more than that, and so you blink back tears as she forgets again and you kiss her forehead before you leave.

Now Sam is someone you trust implicitly and you’re not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s his easygoing attitude or how he knows what it is like to lose the other half of yourself in the middle of a war.

“It was like I was just up there to watch.”

You know that feeling all too well and it makes your lungs constrict and your heart ache and all you can think about when he asks what makes you happy is Bucky.

It was always Bucky.

\- - - - - - -

Chaos erupts around you the night you find Fury in your apartment, chaos you’ve only felt in the heat of battle whether it was taking down a HYDRA base or fighting aliens in the streets of New York City.

The assassin who killed Fury was fast and your stomach aches for hours after he tosses your shield back at you. Time seems to slide together until you’re standing in front of Alexander Pierce and your gut twinges. You may not like Nick Fury, but you don’t think it was him he was telling you not to trust. You’re proven right in the elevator and as you run away from the base – a fugitive – you wonder just who you can trust.

It turns out that Natasha is who you place your trust in as you hunt down the Winter Soldier. Hearing Zola’s voice underneath the base you were trained in feels like a punch from the past in the solar plexus. You’re winded and dismayed and feel like throwing up when Zola tells you about HYDRA and how it never died.

HYDRA killed Howard, killed Nick Fury and it was going to kill you and Natasha in less than thirty seconds.

\- - - - - -

Three minutes later and you find out you’re a little harder to kill, something you’re thankful for this time. Carrying Natasha out of the wreckage, you can only think of one place to go. Dragging Sam into this fight wasn’t something you intended on doing, but you’re grateful as he covers your six and you race off to find Natasha before the Winter Soldier does. You make it in time, but barely.

His metal arm bruises your skin and makes your bones shake with each punch and kick he delivers efficiently. He handles your shield like a weapon you never could and his knife comes too close to comfort. Howard was wrong – HYDRA was currently trying to kill you with a knife and when you hear the metal give way underneath its blade your heart skips a beat. When you finally get the upper hand and flip him over your shoulder you don’t realize the mask slips off his face until he turns around and the world stops.

Everything stops.

Your whole body protests as your lungs heave and attempt to break through your chest with your heart and it feels like an asthma attack. It feels like the ocean slamming into your body and you’re too shocked to do anything but say his name.

“Bucky?”

His mouth opens and his voice hits you like a bullet and his words make you bleed until you can’t think anymore.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

You barely recall Sam swooping in – only seeing the barrel aimed at you, attached to the hand of the man who fell into ice and snow – and it is instinct that makes you jump at the explosion. After that, it’s a blur. You feel the concrete digging into your knees and the steel clamped around your wrists, the bumps underneath you as the truck drives to someplace you’re most likely going to be buried behind. You don’t really see Sam or Natasha who is bleeding out across from you – there is only Bucky.

“Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.”

The raw honesty of your words hang in the air until you’re snapped out of it by Agent Hill and you take little comfort in the fact you’re not going to die at Rumlow’s hands just yet.

When you see Fury lying in a hospital bed you feel Natasha tremble under your hands and your fists clench. You can’t identify any specific emotions – they’re all a tangled mess, but you know you want to hit something. It’s when Nick tries to salvage S.H.I.E.L.D. that you snap and refuse to acknowledge the idea. Everything’s been tainted, lines have been blurred and the whole ship has to be taken out.

No more HYDRA, no more S.H.I.E.L.D. no more anything but soldiers and a mission that should have ended seventy years ago.

\- - - - - - - -

You’re an hour older and your shoulders sag under your unlived years until you have to tell your body to keep stepping.

Your old uniform fits like a glove and if you close your eyes you’re in Paris again. You can smell Peggy’s perfume and hear Bucky’s laughter at something the Howling Commandos said. You fight through the past to march into S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters and do something you should have done the second you found out about Project Insight. You know deep down that people will fight and they will die, and you regret not knowing their names or even what their faces will look like as they pull out their guns and follow your orders.

You hope Bucky can hear you – you hope you’ll be able to reach him with your words like you used to. Your muscles are tense and your head is clear: You have a mission and you can’t die until it’s completed. And afterwards, if you can’t pull Bucky back, well you’ve crashed a plane once before and you are willing to do it again.

You listen to Maria and Sam and fight through HYDRA agents like it’s 1943 and you’re finally on the front line doing what you’ve wanted to do since you were twenty and taking art classes. Your body remembers every move and you barely have to think as you secure Alpha and you snag a ride with Sam and land on Charlie. You’re steady on your feet for a couple seconds when Bucky attacks and you know you’re almost there.

Sam's suit is broken and you’re okay with that. He can’t fight this battle for you and it’s safer on the ground anyway.

Bucky's there, like you knew he would be and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to fall to your knees because there isn’t a word in any known language to describe how much you do not want to fight him.

“Please don’t make me do this,” you beg and he remains cold and professional and it lights a fire in the core of your soul that Zola did this to him: Turned him into a killing machine devoid of all emotions and heart. Bucky used to be filled with so much heart you could've drowned in it. You have no choice and the shield flies from your hand without a second thought. A bullet grazes your side and you hiss, but fight through it because he’s trying to kill you and you can’t die yet.

The chip flies from your hand and you both tumble over the edge and you wish to keep falling. Your shield is used against you and when his knife sinks into your shoulder your cry seems to encourage him further. He’s ruthless in his attack and your heart dies with each hit until you’re forcing the air from his body and choking the life from him just long enough to make him let go of the chip. Seconds are left and your adrenaline is off the charts as you race back to the top. Of course he recovers and the bullet lodged in the lack of your leg stings, but you don’t stop.

You can’t stop.

People are gonna die.

You can’t stop.

Not yet.

You can’t remember being this tired, this sore and torn up on the inside. Maria’s voice is tense in your ear as she counts down seconds and suddenly your outsides match your insides and blood is seeping through your abdomen. Your vision goes black for a second, but you force yourself to stand up and you wonder in the back of your mind why he doesn’t go for the kill shot, but it doesn’t matter because as you slide the chip in you know you’re going to die.

You tell Maria to fire because you’re done.

Your mission is complete.

You want to sleep now.

It’s Bucky’s cry of agony that shakes you awake and you stumble through the rattling ship and explosions that try to take you out before you can reach him. Providing leverage for Bucky to get lose feels like a last act and you try to make it count because your body can’t go on much longer. Blood’s clotting faster than normal, but a body can’t live with a broken spirit for long and yours breaks even more with the hatred you see in Bucky’s eyes.

“You know me.”

There's a hitch in your voice, it catches and it tears at your throat until it's raw and the smell of blood is all you know.

"Bucky, you've known me your whole life."

Punch.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…”

Hit.

“I’m not going to fight you.”

The shield falls from your hands into the water and you don’t even flinch. You don't think you're getting through, his eyes are black and you're failing this mission so you let your shield fall. You can't defend yourself from this, from him, and you don't want to.

“You’re my friend.”

He smashes into you and you don’t fight it. Punch after punch and it’s getting hard to see and you taste blood in your mouth like that day so long ago when he picked you up and dusted you off and created a space for you in his heart.

“You’re my mission,” he spits out and you want to laugh until you can’t breathe because you've always been Bucky’s mission and Bucky’s always been yours.

You inhale, swallow the blood that’s pooling in your mouth and you throw a rope out in desperation, in hopes he’ll come back to you in time. _Just a few more seconds, please see me Bucky please come back to me, please Bucky_ and you’re praying like your mother used to when fever tore up your insides.

“Then finish it, because I'm with you ‘til the end of the line.”

Your eyes are closed when he hesitates, but it doesn’t matter because suddenly you’re falling and you welcome the cool splash of water as it engulfs you like Bucky’s arms used to. You feel heavy and light at the same time and you welcome the darkness that creeps close to the edge of your consciousness. Eventually everything fades to black and for the second time in your long life you don’t expect to wake up.

When you do, it’s even more painful the second time, but unlike the first time you know what you have to do. You’ve been given another chance and you know this one has to count – you’re not immortal, just sturdy. Stuck in a hospital bed you make a plan to find him and bring him home because now you know as you drift through the haze of drugs that a metal arm pulled you from a watery grave. Bucky saved your life, some part of him is still alive in that wintery shell and you’re going to bring him back even if you have to chase him across the globe to do so.

Seventy years late is better than never and it’s time for your soldier to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh that was emotionally exhausting - how am I gonna get through this 3rd chapter? Alcohol maybe? Anyway, in case you haven't guessed, the 3rd chapter is going to be about Steve following Bucky across the globe and whatnot and depending on my mood it'll have a happy ending or an open ending where I could write more or I'll leave it to your imagination. But I'm a huge sucker for happy endings for these boys so yeah.
> 
> Note: I also created a mix for this fic and will post it when I've got it up on my 8tracks. So cheers, more pain. (http://8tracks.com/orionsdaughter/if-you-re-loved-by-someone)


	3. Those Bad Thoughts Are Finally Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You poured so much of who you were into him, that when he fell your soul split in half and as you stand on the ledge where you stood seventy odd years ago, you can see the train and feel the snow under your feet and when you turn you half expect Bucky to be there instead of Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make you wait for this... but it refused to let me, so here it is.

You’ve been ninety-six for two hours when an unmarked package arrives at your doorstep and you know who it’s from before you open it.

Since she left you and Sam standing by Fury’s grave, Natasha has been sure to let you know she’s alive and her birthday present is just one of the packages you’ve gotten in the past couple of months.

Sam snickers behind you and you can’t help but chuckle along as you eye the knitted sweater sporting “Sexy Senior” across the chest in white yarn. It’s soft and you have no doubt that Natasha made it herself. You wish you could send her a thank you note or even a sweater in return with something equally cheeky, but you have a feeling she’ll know you like it, especially when you wear it out the next day and smile at the stares you get.

It’s been two weeks since the trail for Bucky went cold so you and Sam left London behind and headed back home. You feel like you’re going to crawl out of your skin, all the waiting and tossing around theories is driving you mad. You’re a man of action and you should be out there, looking for Bucky instead of drinking coffee at Sam’s kitchen table.

“What? You gonna turn over every rock on this planet and hope he’s under one? Come on Steve, cool your jets and just wait. If he wants to be found, he’ll find a way to let you know.”

Sam’s words wash over you and you let some of your anxiety float away until it’s easier to breathe and the cup isn’t creaking in your hand.

You know he’s right, of course he is.

That doesn’t make it any easier though when your phone rings and Tony’s name flashes across the screen. You don’t get excited, he’s probably calling to say he’s got nothing, but hope still rises in your throat when you answer it. When he tells you that he has something, the breath you take in feels like every summer that Bucky and you spent lounging around in your living room half-naked and tossing ice chips at one another.

It feels like joy and relief rolled into one inhalation that it takes you a few seconds to realize Tony's said you name three times because you got quiet.

“We’ll be right there,” you say and hang up.

\- - - - - - -

You don’t know how long it took you to trust Tony after the helicarriers went down. He helped with the redesigns after all. It wasn’t until you got a postcard from Natasha saying that Stark had been a target all along that you decide it’s time to ask him for help when Bucky’s file leads you to dead ends and cold basements with blood on the wall.

You don’t like asking for help, not with this. Bucky is your responsibility, a piece of your past – no one else’s and it rankled at something deep inside you when Tony smirked and took Bucky’s file from your hands without blinking. It was if he’d been waiting for you to come to him and for a moment you wanted to shove him out a window.

Between Sam’s wings and Tony’s suits, he would’ve been fine but it makes your lips curl up when you imagine the look on his face if you had actually gone through with it.

Bucky always said you had a bit of a mean streak if you dug really, really deep. He’d been teasing, but after a couple years of war and crippling trust issues you figure you can afford to have one. Surely not all good men were good one-hundred percent of the time. You’d been willing to tear HYDRA to pieces and let everything burn after Bucky had fallen. That familiar urge was humming in your blood as you reread his file and it doesn’t make you feel very good.

But it makes you feel human and that is very important these days.

“You know this is most likely a trap right? Your old pal is probably hoping you’ll catch up to him so he can kill you properly this time, but I’m sure you’ve thought of that already,” Tony warns, pulling up a map where a bright blue circle is pulsing on the outskirts of Paris.

You grimace, but nod.

“Nat warned me before she left.”

You recall her words and maybe you shouldn't have pulled the string so soon after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, but you had to find Bucky and fast before he forgot whatever made him save you. The two weeks of silence were obviously his way of saying he was in charge.

Bucky was running this mission and he knew it; you all did.

“Well as long as you know the risks my conscious is clear and I wish you the best of luck with capturing your super assassin ex-boyfriend and I’ll be sure to tell Pepper to send you a fruit basket if you return mostly unscathed.”

A response is at the tip of your tongue when the elevator doors slide open and Pepper Potts strides across the marble floor with a grace you have witnessed in very few women.

“You could always send the fruit basket yourself you know,” she chides and you smile at the wounded look on Tony’s face. You met Pepper once after New York and she made quite the impression – an impression she’s living up to with every click of her heel. She turns to address you and Sam and her smile is genuine, which doesn’t feel as foreign as it might have before you crashed the helicarriers into the Potomac.

“It’s good to see you Steve and you must be Sam Wilson. I hope Tony hasn’t been too much of a handful.”

Sam’s laugh is easy and you can tell he’s impressed like he was when he first met Natasha. “Nah ma’am nothing we couldn’t handle.”

It feels familiar and comfortable and so you let yourself bask in the quiet of the moment as Pepper talks to Tony about work. You and Sam can't stick around much longer though. You’ve got a flight to book and since you know Bucky’s location you’re tempted to leave the second you step out of Stark Tower. When Pepper touches your arm gently as you head towards the elevator and tells you to be careful and good luck, you’re too stunned to say anything.

Eventually you manage to get a ‘thank you’ out and her eyes are soft and understanding and it reminds you of your mother. You look past her and see the way Tony is looking at her and suddenly you understand why he’s helping you.

You’d recognize that look anywhere – you’d seen it for years after you lost Bucky to the war and then to HYDRA: The look of a man who had lost something precious and would do anything to get it back or keep it safe. You make a mental note to ask Tony what happened with the Mandarin when you return. For being part of a team – even if it was only once – none of you seem to know how to help (or want to help/be helped by) each other and that’s not how a team works.

You’re far from late night sleepovers and shawarma nights, but the potential is there and while they’re not your old team – The Avengers could be something great and after the mess you made of S.H.I.E.L.D the world could use something great.

So could you.

\- - - - - - - -

It is wet in Paris when you touch down and it’s like a blast from the past in the worst way.

You start at an abandoned S.H.I.E.L.D. base that Bucky “accidentally” activated and work your way outwards until you’re standing in the middle of a decrepit warehouse in front of a chair that Bucky was once strapped to and wiped down until he was mindless once more. Rage bubbles under your skin and it grows with each mile you travel further into Europe.

Messages from Tony lead you through France, Italy, and when you finally make it to Germany two weeks later you feel the full weight of your years grinding down on your bones until they feel paper thin and so fragile that taking another step would surely cause your femurs to snap. You’ll never again feel the vigor that life grants the twenty-year olds and it’s a bitter taste on your tongue when you realize Bucky hasn’t felt that vitality since he put on his uniform and became a causality of war.

Bucky’s footprints are frozen in the mud outside a barn you vaguely recall crouching in as you waited for a HYRDA battalion to cross into your line of sight. They’d gone down easily and you spent the night celebrating and laughing at a bawdy song Dum-Dum sang at the top of his lungs and Bucky’s cheeks had flushed pink when you winked at him. The song reverberates through the moldy wooden walls and Sam leaves you alone to relive the memory.

He’s talking to Tony when you step outside and the cool air dispels the smell of Dernier’s cigarette smoke and Morita’s rum. They had lived their lives, died old and safe and warm in their beds and you’re happy for them: A little jealous as well.

“We’re maybe two days behind him,” Sam says pocketing the cell phone and your stomach growls.

He tosses you an apple and he falls in behind you as you head north. Maybe you’ll close the gap and catch up to Bucky, but there’s a sinking feeling in your gut that tells you this is as close as you’ll ever get. It’s not a thought you let linger in your head so you push on and when night falls and Sam can’t walk another mile, you set up camp and instincts tell you to forgo a fire and to stay low and quiet.

That night you dream and you wake up wishing it had been another nightmare.

Instead you were lounging on the stairs, thirteen and more awkward than you had any right to be, and listening to Bucky tell you in graphic detail what it felt like kissing Maggie Farrow. His eyes are wide and the sun hits them just right and you think you can see the kind of man he’ll grow up to be in those dark hues. Bucky bites his bottom lip and you’re stuck violently by the need to soothe it with your own and the desire comes out of nowhere and knocks the air out of your lungs.

You can’t breathe for a second and Bucky goes from dazed to concerned in a heartbeat and his hand is on your back and he’s coaching you on how to breathe, thinking you’re having an asthma attack and if he only knew what kind of attack it really was.

You shake off his touch when you’ve gathered yourself and you laugh it off, hoping he’ll join in and think the flush is from your attack and not from the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in the universe.

You wake up panting and your veins are humming with electricity like they always did when Bucky looked at you. Curling into yourself, you fight back tears and spend the rest of the night creating a plan of attack. You know where Bucky’s headed and you don’t know if he’ll be there waiting for you, but it’s important that you have what you’re going to say figured out because you might make it worse if you wing it.

You learned early on to be cautious around Bucky, though it wasn’t easy when his infectious laughter made you want to build a home under his skin and stay there: Safe and warm and loved more than the blood pumping through his veins. He made you feel reckless and immortal even when HYDRA was trying to kill you and those feelings stuck with you until you could steal him away and return the favor.

Bucky only fell apart when you were near him and there is no medal of honor higher than the trust he gave you every time you pulled him apart and put him back together in time to rush back into danger and do it all over again. You saw him raw and terrified after the nightmares that Zola implanted in his brain and you whispered words of love into his damp skin until he drifted off, not always remembering the dream in the morning.

You poured so much of who you were into him, that when he fell your soul split in half and as you stand on the ledge where you stood seventy odd years ago, you can see the train and feel the snow under your feet and when you turn you half expect Bucky to be there instead of Sam.

“This where it happened?” he asks and you shake your head.

“No, but it started here and ended a couple miles up and then down.”

He doesn’t say anything after that and neither do you. There’s no line to zip-line and no train to leap onto. There’s no German scientist to capture or Bucky to cover his back. There’s nothing here and it feels like your soul is splitting itself again and again until it’s just a faded photograph of two Brooklyn boys with bloodied lips and identical grins.

\- - - - - - -

You could live another seventy years and never forget the day you left Bucky’s ghost behind in Germany.

You didn’t know what he had wanted to accomplish, but if it had been the breaking of your spirit it was a successful mission. You didn’t sleep on the flight home, but you kept your eyes closed to avoid conversation.

Numbness settles under your skin and makes itself at home between your ribs. It’s softer than the sting of Grief so you keep it fed and warm next to your heart which feels slower and sadder than before. Sam keeps a close eye on you the days following your return and surprisingly so does Tony. Natasha mails you a package of foreign tea with a note that says ‘Give him time, he’ll come to you’ and you make it last.

Some nights you spend drawing instead of sleeping and Sam always makes sure there’s plenty of coffee on the mornings he finds you asleep on the couch.

Days turn to weeks and you settle into the routine you had before S.H.I.E.L.D. went belly up. You run in the mornings with Sam but instead of going on missions you visit Tony and watch him design new suits and debate topics that fly way above your head with Bruce who seems calmer than before even though you doubt living with Tony could be relaxing in any form. Tony offers to upgrade Sam’s wings and the new modifications make Sam grin like a kid on Christmas.

You have lunch with Pepper and sometimes chat with Maria Hill who tells you in few words that Fury’s taking down HYRDA agents somewhere in Norway. Natasha continues to send to mail and you even get a postcard with Clint’s chicken scratch signature at the bottom and the smile on your face feels real for the first time in months.

You’re not happy exactly, but you are content and after years of war and bloodshed and death you think that maybe you deserve this stillness. Maybe you don’t have to be a soldier every second of every day and it’s liberating to walk around Stark Tower barefoot.

Six months after leaving Bucky’s ghost behind in Germany and that stillness suddenly breaks and you’re speechless for the first time in years.

\- - - - - - -

A part of you knew, deep down where you hid his laugh that he would come after you.

So you’re not as surprised as you probably should be when you see him sitting on the front steps of your new apartment.

Your legs stop without your permission and your eyes drink him in like he’ll vanish if you blink. His hair’s pulled back in a ponytail and it looks good on him. He hasn’t shaved in a couple weeks by the look of the scruff on his face and he’s wearing a black jacket and dark jeans with holes in their knees. The sun reflects off his metal fingers and there are shadows under his dark eyes, but he’s still the most handsome guy you’ve ever met.

As you look him over, Bucky slowly – as if not to startle you – opens his hands, palms up, and rests them on his knees.

You’re struck with an absurd urge to laugh and it must show on your face because Bucky looks at you confused and it nearly does you in. And you know, as sure as you know how many gray hairs he gave his mother before he was thirteen that the man on the steps is Bucky Barnes. You don’t know how far the Winter Soldier is, but it feels wrong to separate them. You are both Steve Rogers and Captain America: There’s blood seeping through the cloth that tries to keep them apart and you know it has to be worse for Bucky.

You finally move and when you sit next to him on the steps you both lean into each other: An automatic response programed into both of your bodies before you learned how to shot a gun.

He speaks first and it surprises you, the roughness of his voice and the stilted way he breathes as if he’s forgotten how to speak and use his lungs at the same time.

“You stopped following me.”

You nod and gently knock his shoulder with yours.

“I had to come back and water the flowers in Sam’s garden. It’s a new hobby of mine.”

In the corner of your right eye you see Bucky’s lip quirk upwards and it feels a lot like winning the war. A soft chuckle slips through his lips and it’s 1934 in Brooklyn and you’re falling in love faster than you can say his name. You both watch the sun peak over the buildings on the horizon and when Bucky asks if he can stay you’re saying yes before the question is out of his mouth.

\- - - - - -

Roughly a year later and you wake up to the smell of bacon.

The bed is cold and you yawn all the way to the kitchen. Vera Lynn’s voice echoes in the hallway and you smile at the turntable before catching sight of Bucky hovering over the stove. His hips sway in tune with the music and you know he’s somewhere else and you want to be right there with him.

You shuffle your feet, making just enough noise not to break the mood, but enough to let Bucky know he’s not alone and that you’re going to touch him.

Your arms wrap around his waist and he smells like your soap when you kiss the back of his neck. He’s relaxed against your front and you can’t help but feel invincible when you recall how long it took you to get this far – the battles fought and nights spent leaning against the wall outside Bucky’s door.

“You keep that up and I’m gonna burn the bacon.”

“Can’t have that now can we?” you ask playfully and slowly pull away, but Bucky doesn’t let you go far. His hand slides around your back and he clings to your hip and you both watch the bacon sizzle in the skillet. The open widows carry the sound from the street inside and it’s sunny and warm: The perfect spring day.

Eventually you have to pull apart and get the plates ready. When you’re loaded up with pancakes, bacon, and toast you rest your feet next to Bucky’s under the table and soon you’re playing footsie like a pair of love-struck teenagers and the smile on Bucky’s face is the best thing you’ve seen since the war.

The phone rings when you’re cleaning up the kitchen and Bucky answers it before you can pull your soapy hands from the sink.

“Tony?” you ask when Bucky slides behind you and he snorts into your shoulder.

“Wants to show us his newest baby. His words, not mine,” Bucky replies and you huff in amusement. Tony had practically gotten on his hands and knees and begged Bucky to let him look at his arm and Steve will never forget the look on Tony’s face when Bucky finally said yes six months after Tony first asked. Since then, Tony is adamant that he and Bucky come around the Tower to look at his latest inventions.

“It would be rude not to go,” you begin but Bucky’s lips on your neck short-circuit your brain and soon you’re facing him and he’s kissing you like he’ll never get the chance to do it again. That’s how you kiss these days, slightly desperate and in awe that you’re both here and not at the bottom of a mountain or an ocean.

It’s heady and the way he whispers your name fills your heart with so much love you’re afraid it will give out. His fingers dig into your hips and you press yourself closer, wanting to melt together and never be able to tell the difference between one another. Bucky pulls away and his lips are red and wet and you groan, pulling him back in because you’ll never be done kissing him: You’ll never get enough.

A pounding on the front door makes you break apart and suddenly Bucky’s armed with a kitchen knife and you’re reaching for your shield that’s in the living room when Natasha’s voice rings out.

“Come on soldiers. Stark’s insisting that we all attend his grand unveiling and I’m not above storming in there and dragging you both to the Tower in chains. If some of us suffer, all of us suffer.”

You sigh in relief and lean against the counter and Bucky looks sheepishly down at the knife he doesn’t remember grabbing. You gently take it from his hand and press a kiss onto his forehead before yelling that you need to get dressed.

Bucky smirks at Natasha’s reply and you feel your cheeks flush and it takes you both a little longer than normal to get dressed, but you make it out the door before she kicks it down so you count it as a victory. You lock the door on the way out and when you blink you can suddenly see what it looked like in 1918. Your mom’s in the doorway, waving at you and Bucky as you race to school. Bucky’s arm is wrapped around your shoulder and when you feel him lean into your side, you know he can see it too.

A few years shy of your hundredth birthday; you walk hand-in-hand with the boy who pulled your bones back together when you were twelve and loved you enough to go to stay in a war that ended seventy years later than it should have.

You’re ninety-seven years old when he finally comes back to you, and you have never felt more alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't look at me, I am a mess and I will never be okay ever again. I hope I did this fandom justice and I really hope you enjoyed the ending because there was no way I could hurt these boys even more. Again, I cannot thank those of you who have commented enough. Feedback is my lifesource and you all have been so lovely and amazing. I cannot say for certain if I'll write another Marvel fic again, but if I do it's nice to know I will be welcomed.


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